


My Heart Is In Chains

by AshToSilver



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7514414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshToSilver/pseuds/AshToSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bat is dead and the Clown is dying, and yet they find themselves still stuck in this world they no longer know, clinging to the only shreds of normality they can find</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart Is In Chains

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first batjokes fanfiction I ever wrote back in 2012 and it is TERRIBLE, I'm really only putting it up here for archive purposes and to make the rest of my shit look good. It was originally posted on [fanfiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8221589/1/My-Heart-Is-In-Chains) on my ViKotan account.
> 
> Honestly, you probably shouldn't read this like HOLY BABY JESUS so bad so awful much blah. Also it was never finished. so. I'm just going to leave this here.
> 
>  **EDIT Aug/2016:** I have changed my username, I am now going by AshToSilver on AO3 and [my new Tumblr](http://ashtosilver.tumblr.com/)! You can still call me Alex, but I no longer have a day of the week in my name.

It had always been assumed that the Joker could have broken out of Arkham the first chance he got.

Somehow, this was the image everyone had placed in their minds; an uncontrollable madman genius, with fingers like quicksilver that could open any lock, box or ribcage. Boy were they wrong.

If the Joker had been placed in Blackgate first instead of Arkham, perhaps he would have had a better chance. There, the beatings were worst, going deeper and lasting longer with less medical attention, but at least the prisoners were un-drugged, and kept like fish in cans. Social networking so to speak would have freed the clown's wings in days.

Instead, the first time, still numb from the SWAT team and cop's beating and blood still crusted around a badly treated "accidental" shoulder shot wound, he was strapped down, a bad combination of pills and liquid medicines making their way through his throat and blood steam. When he vomited most of it back up, they tried a slightly different group. Apparently in a case like his, trail and error was the best route to go.

Bruce had known all of this - admittedly with a month's delay.

The clown's trial had been one of the most clearest, most agonizing moments in recent memory. After the fog from weeks of _Batman's gone_ had lifted, to clear his eyes to the headlines full of Glasgow grins, he had started nicking newspapers here and there, placing additional news feeds into his phone's program and changing the channel to more "gossip" based news at night, when the urge to flee the penthouse tore through every muscle and bone and almost drove him crazy.

He was not cut out for civilian life, as little as the Joker was cut out for nuthouse living.

He limited himself to how much he followed the clown at first, cutting the program when Rachel or Harvey's face lit up the screen - which was a lot - and he only looked at things once a day at best, waiting until the next before rechecking anything if he had to. And always at night, always, always at night. Any other time made his skin feel tinted.

The talk shows were full of bullshit most of the time. The things that interested Bruce was his recovery rates. If Joker's recovery went "up" as they said, he could be cleared for release as a guarded civilian, put into some sort of out-patient rehab center. If it just "leveled", he would spend a great amount of time in Arkham, being put through what those idiots called therapy.

If it went "down", he would be deemed tamed, and sent to a slave processing plant for training.

Both the first and third option made him want to throw up.

A month into the clown's visit, Bruce breaks into Arkham's system and has a look at his medical files. That does make him vomit, rushing to the bathroom in a moment of weakness. There is a list of medication as long as his arm and half of it isn't cleared to be mixed with the other half of it. There are reports of "fighting" among the inmates that ends with the Joker spend over a week in a hospital for broken ribs and a punctured lung. There are endless reports of cuts and bruises so skin-damaging they bleed. Photos stained with blood of fingers pulling back lips to show missing teeth and eyes swollen shut and painted so black he thinks for a moment they gave him back his makeup.

There are no reports in the Joker's file of him even spending time with other inmates, and a thousand for "disagreement with hospital security". Arkham's only goal is to keep him alive for at least six weeks, because after that he's clear for group interaction, and if something was to happen and he was to kick the bucket, nobody would be that upset.

Bruce tells himself that this is the Joker's punishment, that he deserves every drop of blood the guards spill from his body, but at the same time, he fears for the clown.

Somehow, his demise seems to be Bruce's as well.

The Joker adjusts as well as Bruce does to his new life. The first few nights are a riot, him screeching in laughter at the guards, howling as they move towards him and for lack of better words "beat the shit out of him". It happens night after night after night, and two weeks in, the clown doesn't laugh any more. The last time he remembers laughing is marred by the taste of blood hissing from his throat and even floating high on drugs, he knows in general his body isn't suppose to do that. That's the first time they actually treat him, instead of just taking pictures of new wounds (how they can bear to do this every single day and yet rarely even bother to properly disinfect new wounds is beyond him).

He didn't imagine that a mental hospital would be anything like this. He always assumed that you went here to get treated.

He didn't want to be treated, but the vacation from constantly being on the watch, constantly moving, constantly being in character would have been nice.

Its worst now then before. Every part of him hurts; every day is full of tasteless disgusting food, bright lights and another five dozen pills and needles. Every night filled with sneaking security and night terrors he can't remember but frighten him anyway.

A month in, they get him a "therapist".

They had made sure to pick someone whose family hadn't died from his actions, but the doctor hated him all the same, insisted that they try some "old-fashion" types of treatment. He doesn't remember most of them - only a blaze of pain or terror remains mixed with the worn edges of drugs - but he does remember the shock therapy.

Mostly because they hadn't bothered to sedate him first.

The therapy drags on, he speaks less, something the guards insist is "good practice" - though for what, he does not know.

His doctor tells him two months in. If all goes well (all goes well his _ass_ , if all goes wrong is better) he will be sold to be a slave.

His doctor smiles. Wouldn't that be nice?

Joker hadn't punched anyone since his first two weeks, but he almost rips this _monster_ of a man to pieces, daring him to say that someone would just love to spend the rest of his life - his life, not theirs - _owning_ every cell in his body, every breath he took, every movement he made.

He had never wanted to die before that moment, but now that his fate was approaching on the horizon, an army marching in tune, he could think of nothing more he could ever wish for.

Bruce had lost himself in a world of sparkling lights and sweet drinks and foods. In a world where richness wasn't just displayed on one's own body, but on the pets and slaves they paraded around, he was faced every moment and every waking blink to the horrors of what the Joker would face soon enough.

The slim bodies, smooth movements and jewels sewn into skin and limb, these people (he still thought of them as people, even if that was wrong in this society) were nothing more then purses hanging off their owners arms, fetching wine and twirling in circles on command.

He knew the clown would never be as pretty or dazzled as these pets were - he would probably be one of the more brutal pets, chained at the feet of powerful people, where they stroked their hands through hair like they were Rottweilers or Bulldogs.

But he would be paraded. An amazing catch, the most dangerous man in Gotham tied to one's feet. Who could ask for more.

A plan began to creep into his mind.

The three month mark brought another hospital visit for Joker. This time, the guard's beatings had accelerated at an accidental giggle, and the force of the baton going down on his leg had been powerful enough for splinters of bone to stab through the skin. He had laid in a puddle of blood for a good twenty minutes before they decided that they should probably call someone. Of course there was an excuse - they had just "found" him like that - but nobody really cared.

It hits the news like wildfire against bush planes and Bruce switches his monthly medical checks to every two weeks.

This visit one was slightly short in comparison, but the Joker wishes it wasn't. He had hated the first visit, fighting against the straps every second he was awake, but now the nights are uneventful and sedatives lull him to sleep whenever the lights dim. Its so peaceful that he protests every time they move him. The day he leaves is almost as bad as the day they damaged his lung.

His doctor (three months in and he still can't remember his name) tells him they're going to go light on him to let his leg heal. He stresses the need to be in top physical shape for when they send him to the centers.

Joker focuses on the scar splitting the vile man's eyebrow, knows it costs him too much to ever do it again, but feeling proud all the same.

The doctor assigns him reading, saying it'll be useful for him to use his mind instead of his hands to communicate. The clown can't remember one time in the last three weeks where he's lifted a finger to attack someone.

The reading is slavery regulations. He throws them across the space in anger and gets shoved into one of the walls of his cell for it. They yell at him to shut up and read, swearing they'll assess the damage from every ruined page and take it from his flesh in payment.

Some tiny part of his mind, oily with greasepaint and gunpowder tells him to know his enemy, to learn all he can so he can find a loophole.

His stomach feels heavy with lead as he picks the books up.

He'll read them, not because he wants to find a loophole, but because he doesn't think he can stand a life where all he does is get beaten for his mistakes.

The months crawl - Bruce is bathed in lights and glitter, fancy clothing and fancier food. Joker is washed in blood and words that crawl all over his skin, like Y _ou must not cause harm to any living creature unless instructed_ or _you must alert your master or the closest authority if someone attempts to aid you in or talks to you about freedom, being released, escaping or denying your orders_.

The sixth month mark brings big things for both of them.

Wayne Manor reaches its completion. Bruce throws a party for Gotham, letting everyone and anyone come. The night lasts until the sun crawls back up, acting as hungover as the party-goers are. Everyone leaves happy of course, and thankfully the manor isn't burned down again.

The party, nor the moving back in wasn't the important part of the whole affair though.

Bruce comes to in the master bedroom, every sense coated with the lingering effects of wine. He never used to get drunk before, but since the demise of Batman, its been happening more and more often.

Alfred is there, looking tired and worn, offering Bruce some foul hangover cure before hesitantly asking his master if he can discuss something Bruce told him last night.

The younger man stops mid-sip, casting a worried look in his direction. Any other person with a headache like his would have told the old slave to go off and forget it, but he had a horrible feeling he knew what he was talking abut, and the subject had to come up sooner or later.

He patted the bed and the pair sat in silence, before Alfred asked the question Bruce had been dreading for months now.

Were they really going to buy the Joker?

The only response he could offer was a fuzzy, slow nod.

The butler stared at the floor for a long time, and then slowly got to his feet, and said that once he had slept off the worst of everything, perhaps Bruce should go down the registration office and look over some of the rules he'll need to know about bringing in a dangerous new slave.

He tried to offer mumbled sorries for not telling him sooner, but Alfred just waved them off and told his master to go have a shower.

Somehow Bruce knew he understood why he had to save this creature, his other half in a sickening sense, from his own falling.

Joker had been doing worse then the doctors had originally though. He was suppose to snap _months_ ago. Sure, he was compliant and quiet, but he was not obedient. The longer he stayed and resisted, the less value he was worth. And the staff were very aware of the cut they'd get for this.

Some notes here and there and the clown's personal doctor turned up to a session with a bottle full of amber liquid.

Joker eyed the needle and fluid with the same sort of glance one would expect someone would give to a plague victim.

His doctor grinned a smile that would have put the clown's to shame and stabbed the needle through the lid.

It's practice, he told the shivering mental patient. Your future master could do this to you.

Oh God, oh God, ohGod-

The liquid burns going in, smearing every vein with fiery poison. It settles well and after a while he thinks perhaps that feeling was only at the beginning.

Then the doctor brings a book down on his arm and his skin _burns_. He screams at the feeling of his flesh being cut off layer by layer, he screams at the flashes blocking every particle of light and he screams at the utter pain that tears at his mind like a rapid wolf.

When it fades, all he has is a forming bruise, not a cut on him.

He stares in horror at the man towering about him, his ringing ears filled with the chuckles of the guards.

The doctor asks him if he'd like to be given the antidote and he's begging before the man even finishes his sentence. Please, please, please he could not endure that again.

He has never begged before, not truly, but he does now. Everything in contact with his skin is sending burning waves even now. His cloths, the shackles on the chair, even the soles of his feet pressed against the ground feel as if live coals have been placed under them.

The doctor grins wider then he could have ever imagine. And as if nothing has happened, tells the clown their office session is over.

The guards pick him up under his arms - which is partially a good thing and partially _fucking painful_ \- and he's dragged down the hall with the doctor behind him.

They curve away from his cell route however, and a few agonizing minutes later the Joker is staring at the small courtyard he regularly runs in for exercise. Half of it is under water and the other half is in the process of becoming the same, as thunderclouds boom and lighting strikes down upon the city in the distance. The rain isn't so much raining as dumping the contents of an ocean on the asylum.

Before he can even wonder _what the fuck they are doing_ , he's thrown outside.

Every rain drop - and there is a lot of them - hits his skin with the power of a sledgehammer. The lightning strikes barely a mile away and the thunderclap is so loud he thinks his ears are bleeding.

He's flinging himself up against the door and wailing at them over the rain for them to let him back in, but all he hears in the click of a lock.

He slumps down, resenting having to touch his back and more of his legs against the cement, but having no choice. The doorway offers not nearly enough protection against the wind and what he believes may actually be miniature knives falling from the sky.

A small part of him - the part that still wants to wear purple - tells him not to fall asleep, because if he remembers right, falling asleep in cold rain isn't very healthy and he isn't exactly in tip top shape.

The rain goes on and go, every thunderbolt sending him ramming back against the door. Every splatter shears through a layer of his skin, peeling away until it hits bone and then cutting like acid through that.

It peppers out when the horizon turns pick and he thinks if he wasn't crazy before, he certainly is now.

The poison is still in his bloodstream, though he's noticed traces of it after throwing up somewhere around midnight. Its moved to his digestive tract and the thought of eating almost makes him vomit again.

His doctor appears well after the sun is up - and based upon his clothes, he's obviously gone home, had a good night's sleep and come back at his regular time.

He gives the drowned clown a tiny smile with lots of teeth and asked him if he has learned anything.

Joker thinks to his books, the hints the doctor drops, the jeering of the guards.

He stands - _oh God how he can barely stand_ \- and politely averts his eyes, and then drops into the bowing position, on his knees, with his arms flat against each other and his hands splayed across the wet ground between his thighs. He bows his head and exposes his neck - and feels every single ounce of fight drain from him. He can not stand another second of this. The constant pressure, the rules, the pain.

His life is already not his own, and nothing can change that now.

The doctor sighs happily. A muttered finally tinges the morning air, and the doctor brings him back inside.

He doesn't give Joker the antidote.

Bruce reads a report a week later that states the Arkham staff have officially considered the Joker's treatment to be going "down".

They estimate the ex-criminal will be ready for the auction houses in four months.

Bruce opens up his address book, picks a model he knows has slaves to match every pair of shoes she owns, and asks her sweetly if maybe she'd be willing to show him around some auctions tonight - show him the ropes, so to speak - and her answering shriek is answer enough.

Bruce Wayne is about to go somewhere he has never gone before and he hates every thought of it.

But he can't let his clown down.

The first month is a blaze of dates and cameras as the media catches wind of his choice to buy another slave. They are all over him with questions, asking him if his current family slave is about to die - or if he needs some extra "pleasure" at home. He smiles and waves them off and simply says that he desires a unique addition to his newly rebuilt manor.

The auctions and private sellers are falling over themselves trying to entertain the multi-billionaire. He's getting phone calls at every hour with people offering to show off slaves with skill-sets as long as Joker's medication list, or charities and shelters asking him to consider getting a unique if rather normal slave that has been abandoned or given up on them. Some of them do almost sway him - he can see their wounds, feel their pain and the part of him that is still Batman screams at the injustice and inequality, but he holds out.

He does try his best to reroute the ones he feels badly need buying to "friends" and coworkers, who are more then eager to snap up the ones he almost considered buying. As if to own a slave that Bruce Wayne _almost_ bought is the best thing in the world, only second best to owning a slave he actually did buy.

The end of the month marks Joker's transfer from Arkham to a government owned training center. Bruce's file checks had slid down to a weekly event and the days before and following, he checks every single file almost religiously every day, not even bothering to hide from Alfred. Who, incidentally, is actually quite helpful, in knowing what all these letters, colors and numbers mean.

The Joker fares about as well as any civilian does entering the training centers for the first time. Admittedly, his doctor's "lessons" (weren't those sessions at one point?) had prepared him somewhat, but being stripped of clothing, going through hours of tests and shots, being scrubbed clean and sterilized within an inch of his life is more humiliating than Arkham ever was. At least the crowds of fellow new slaves leave him slightly alone. Even without green hair and greasepaint his smile is still dangerously clown-like. They know a monster when they see one, and they're more then willing to give him his space.

Almost twenty four hours after entering the concrete building, he finally is shoved into a cell containing nine other equally dangerous individuals. They are nervous and their fear turns them into the animals the government now considers them to be. They are tall and thickly built, many covered in muscle. Some will go to fight rings, others to mob bosses or oil tycoons.

He's still the same size he was before - Arkham's mandatory diet and exercising ensured that if nothing else, but God, he's only really dangerous with his nails or knives, and the latter hasn't been on his person in almost seven months. The former is also now gone, every single one, even on his feet, torn off and the flesh sealed over with fancy medical instruments to stop them from growing back. Everything hurts, but at least the last dosage of the amber heightener he had received about a week ago as a "parting lesson" from his doctor had worn off.

He finds a spot in a corner, puts down the blankets they gave him and bares his teeth at the men looking his way.

He only hopes they don't realize he has no will left to fight now, that he is only mimicking toughness so he isn't set upon by these bastards too.

The training starts tomorrow and he has never hoped to die in his sleep more then he has tonight.


End file.
